Collateral Damage
by Jesika Starwatcher
Summary: Venom is evil and Corneria is good . . . or is it the other way around?
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: All the characters, places, and indices belong to Nintendo. Used without permission. Don't sell this story or I will hunt you down and bludgeon you to death with a rubber chicken.

Author's Notes: As life would have it, there has never been a war in history where one side was completely evil and the other completely good. People are just not like that. It is easy to characterize groups of people as evil and good, but it's hardly accurate.

There have been enough fanfics about corruption, torture, and murder by the Venomians. But are the Cornerians really all that different?

Collateral Damage

"All systems are evil. All governments are evil. Not just a trifle evil. Monstrously evil."

--John Gardner, Grendel

_________________

"So I said to'im, 'Listen here, bucko . . . '" the jackal said, quite boisterously to his friend seated at the other desk in the small basement room. His canine comrade feigned interest, but his gray eyes were focused intently on the radar screen in front of him. Several small green blips had just appeared and were now headed dangerously close to the ice planet of Fortuna.

"Hey, are you listening?" the jackal laughed, slapping the dog hard on the shoulder.

"Uhh . . . we got a problem, Rich," he said, standing up quickly and grabbing his camouflaged hat. "Hold down the fort, will ya? I gotta go report some enemy movement."

"Sure thing, man," Rich called after him as he jogged up the short flight of stairs and out the door.

The young soldier walked briskly through the brightly-lit hallway of the military base. He avoided all attempts at conversation, but few pressed him too hard. His eyes told volumes about the gravity of the situation of which they were still unaware.

He stopped in front of a desk where a civilian receptionist-a female cat-was speaking on the phone. The conversation was lighthearted, so the young soldier cleared his throat to get her attention. Her blue eyes narrowed as if she were annoyed, but she said her goodbye and turned to face him.

"Can I help you?" she asked snidely.

"Umm . . . yes. I'm Private Diego Walker and it's very very important that I speak with the General immediately."

"I'm sorry, but he's busy right now. Can you come back tomorrow?"

"No ma'am. I have to speak to him now. Tomorrow will be too late."

"Cry me a river, sugar. Rules are rules . . ."

Walker sighed, crossing his arms as the feline continued in the same whining, nasal voice. He glanced and the door and, seeing no military police, strutted over quickly and let himself in.

Pepper looked up from the papers on his desk, a look of surprise on his countenance. He opened his mouth to say something to the young soldier, but the young man in fatigues spoke first as he saluted. 

"Sir! There is a large Venomian fleet headed toward Fortuna. It appears they are ready to invade."

At about the same time, the secretary stormed in angrily. "You're not supposed to come in here like that, soldier! We have security concerns! I should call the police and have them . . ."

"It's alright, Charlene," the red-uniformed officer soothed. "That won't be necessary. Please allow me to speak to this young soldier in private. Shut the door on your way out."

The cat looked perturbed, but she walked out of the room and slammed the door behind her. As soon as she was gone, Pepper sat back down and motioned for Diego to do the same. The dog did so, and looked around the well-furnished and spacious office, impressed.

"How many?" Pepper asked.

The smaller canine frowned, but otherwise was careful not to show any emotion. "At least twelve thousand fighters and three assault carriers." He shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid they're of a class that the Fortunian military does not have the firepower or numbers to handle."

Pepper rested his head on his paws, staring down at the blood red carpet for a few seconds before speaking again. "Well, let's see if I can work something out."

He turned to the small vid-screen next to his desk and easily punched in a few digits. After several seconds, a middle-aged arctic wolf popped up on screen. He was dressed similarly to Pepper, except he was wearing a cyan jacket instead of crimson. He smiled slightly at the hound. "Aww Pepper. It has been awhile."

"Yes, General Johnstone," the Cornerian replied to his Fortunian counterpart. "But I'm afraid this is but a business call."

"What do you need?"

"I need you to send me those research results on the weapons we were developing with you. It turns out that we require them a bit earlier than expected."

The lupine frowned. "Why, we're barely half done with them. Can't it wait?" He sat up straighter in his leather chair and straightened his collar.

Pepper frowned suddenly, but then forced himself to smile again. "The bureaucrats are getting restless. You know how it is, surely. Anyway, we need them so we can improve the security of both of our homes."

Johnstone smiled back, but his countenance betrayed him, showing obvious suspicion. "Of course. I'll transfer them straight to your intel office over the secure line."

"Thank you, old friend. I will return the favor someday.," Pepper said cheerfully, severing the connection.

Diego sat there, his mouth ajar in shock. He bit his lip and stood up suddenly. When he spoke, his voice wavered, halfway between yelling and crying. "You didn't warn them, Sir."

Pepper spun in his chair to face the soldier. His eyes did not convey much guilt. "You said it yourself, Private. The Fortunians do not have the firepower to withstand the attack, anyway."

"But . . . they could have evacuated! We'll never make it there in time to stop the invasion."

"We're not going to attempt it, soldier."

"The Venomians'll slaughter them!" Diego snarled finally. "We have to send troops like we promised. They don't have enough to fend for themselves."

"Out of the question!" Pepper said, standing up behind his desk. "I will not put my soldiers' lives in danger for this. We need the time to build out own defenses. The Venomians will be too busy fighting . . ."

"Murdering," Diego corrected.

". . . the Fortunians to attack us immediately." Pepper continued, his eyes narrowing as he grabbed Walker by the shoulder and began to lead him to the door. He opened it, pushed him gently outside, and began to close the door when the dog caught it. 

His gray eyes-still holding a look of disbelief-locked with Pepper's as he asked one last question, each word cutting through the air like a white hot dagger. "You're going to let them die, then?"

The old hound's eyes shown with sorrow that was almost too much for him to bear, but his voice was cold, practiced, and all but devoid of emotion. "They're collateral damage."

_____________

Author's Notes: Yeah, I know it's short. It's just sorta something to inform you all that I haven't died. I hope you like it. In other news, check out my blurty at www.blurty.com/users/jeshibouncyball/ to catch up on my other writing endeavors. You'll like some of the stuff I have planned.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See first part. Snifit is copyright to Tyler Paul. Starball is copyright to both of us.

Author's Notes: This is sort of just a short filler chapter. It is not happy, of course. Then again, how many of my stories are?

Collateral Damage Part II: Starball  
  
The Starlight Fortuna Army Base was tucked among the more temperate of the planet's climates; temperate meaning that it generally stayed around zero degrees Farenheit.  
  
It was like any other base on the arctic planet. The Fortunians were a proud people, and rightfully so. They had survived in the most foreboding of natural landscapes and they were thriving.  
  
The majority of the population was made up of military personelle and their families, with only a few scientists and mercenaries. They were the champions of the Lylat System in a game known as Starball; a game which can only be described as a quite rough mix between football, basketball, and soccer played on air skates. In fact, the only planet they had trouble beating was Corneria, though Macbeth was their rival and perhaps had the most obnoxious fanbase in all of the system.  
  
These were the kind of things the people of Fortuna talked about in their strange language which no one in the system seemed to understand. They talked of Starball and Macbeth and rumors of what weapons the scientists were building for the great war with Venom.  
  
Oddly enough, the war rarely entered the militant people's conversations. They expected protection from the Cornerians, as they had expected food and water and money from them in the times past and had never gotten.  
  
It was true this time, too.  
  
But the Fortunians did not know this, so the men, women, and children at the Starlight Base spent their last hours in the mortal realm in a parade-silly thing, really-to welcome back a small-town hero.  
  
Zanu Iceblade knelt down and kissed his little girl, Sanu, on the forehead. She was three, goibng on four, and her little polar bear paws gripped the slick, shiny fabric of her daddy's jersey. It was pretty, cyan and white-Fortuna's national colors-with a snowflake and a star like the flag that she saluted sloppily every day in nursery school before cookie time.  
  
Zanu was a defender on the Fortuna Starball team. They had just beaten Macbeth in the finals, and thus everyone was very happy, at least for the moment, except for the Macbethians of course. It had gone into overtime and was all quite exciting, but Zanu had missed a shot that forced them into overtime. He told the opposing player-friend, really-that he would get him back for that next year.  
  
He would not get the chance.  
  
The attack happened quickly and would have been painless if it did not have the stinging irony found so often in war. The last thing the people of the Starlight Army Base saw was the confetti and the fighters and the bombs and the golden trophy-their passion and sweat and tears. The trophy that was set to make the rounds to each city, but like them would never make it...

"Ouch!" the young coyote yelped after being whacked on the back of the head by a beer bottle. It did not break, and he instead glared angrily at the clumsy drunk who hit him. The cheetah hiccuped out an uncomfortable apology, then went back to his raucous celebration. He was not alone. There were people dancing on chairs and tables throughout the seedy bar. It resembled an Irish pub after a huge victory in soccer.

He shook his head and stared back at the soda he was drinking. He was only seventeen, still too young to drink by any Lylatian laws. Not that he minded too much. He glanced back up at the vid-screen, which was replaying the final goal for the hundredth time that day. The soldier was only slightly interested in sports, but he did enjoy his countrymen's pastime. He wondered silently if he ever played it as a boy . . . if they even had it then.

Suddenly, the screen changed from the sport to a news bulletin:

"The people of Fortuna seemed to have suffered a great tragedy today. At 1:30 standard Lylatian time, an unknown group of ships destroyed the Starlight Military Base. Witnesses to the attack said that they appeared to have Venomian markings, but this remains unsubstantiated at this time. The people of Fortuna, if you are watching, you are in our thoughts and prayers. Thank you. Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming..."

The coyote sat up in his seat as soon as the broadcast began. He narrowed his cool colored eyes and glanced around the room. Sure enough, few of the other patrons seemed to have even noticed the bulletin. The ones that did, however, quickly grabbed their uniforms, hats, and rifles from the doorway and ran off, either to their posts or to their families. After a few moments to get over the shock, the coyote followed suit, but at the last moment turned around to yell out a warning to the others in the bar. "Vens are coming! Get out while you can!"

He did not wait to see if they heard, but instead started running across the street, dodging a few cars along the way. His eyes changed quickly from green to blue in the sunlight, though they were narrowed to slits out of stress. As he rounded the corner, however, the sight that stood before him stopped him in his tracks. There were dozens – no, hundreds – of Venomian cruisers and fighters approaching the small base and town.

"Celm," he swore quietly.

Author's Notes: Ha ha ha.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: See previous chapter. Alexei Parlov is copyright to Tasker. Don't use without his permission.

* * *

Collateral Damage: Part 3

"What though before us lies the open grave?  
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,  
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back"

Claude McKay: If We Must Die (1919)

* * *

How many could there possibly be? Surely our forces had taken care of some of them. Our forces . . . where are the Cornerians? They're not coming, are they? But they promised they would!

Such were the thoughs of the few who survived the initial attack on the small military base. One could possibly say that those who perished - died in one short, fiery, yet humane moment - were the lucky ones.

The survivors were only prolonging the inevitable.

Shock troops came. They were young, strong, and extremely well trained for their heinous occupation. They rushed from one pile of rubble to another, dragging out anyone who wore Fortuna's colors or spoke their bizzare, eloquent, foreign language. It was odd, really, that their imperial persons found the Fortunians to be odd. It was as if they viewed them to be misplaced strangers on their own icy homeworld that needed to be gotten rid of like rodents.

Months later, the Cornerians would use such propaganda, showing the Venomians as monsters who murdered entire towns without mercy.

Since propaganda is never the full truth, to keep true to the definition, the Cornerians paint themselves as benevolent liberators.

* * *

Explosions began to rock the ground around the Fortunian military base. The buildings crumbled a bit with the bombs bursting near them, but most miraculously held up.

The young coyote soldier snapped out of his daze and started running again. He had to get . . . somewhere. He wasn't really sure. His training was to be a sniper and to work in recon. He knew nothing that could help against a large fleet of Venomian ships.

He rounded another corner, pulling out his sidearm instinctively. When he was looking down to ensure that it was loaded, he ran headfirst into another frightened Fortunian.

He quickly opened his eyes to survey whom he had hit. It was a young vixen girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. She was dressed in the clothes mercenaries often wear - gloves, boots, cargo pants, and a black t-shirt. She had dog tags on, however, signifying that she had an allegiance and that he could probably trust her. "Hey!" he yelled at her. "You! Where are you headed?"

She shrugged, stood up, and started to run again. Something caught her eye, however, and she hit the ground, grabbing the coyote's belt and dragging him down with her. Above their heads, a lazer whizzed right past where the coyote had been standing, eventually lancing through a hovercar and its driver.

"Uhh . . . thanks," he said, a bit surprised. He then suddenly seemed to remember that they were still not too terribly safe. "Come on!" he yelled as he pulled her into an adjacent building.

* * *

One, two, three. One, two, three. That was how quick and humane the deaths of those who oppose the emperor are. One quick shot to the back of the head and they are disposed of to make them pay for their high crimes.

Alexei Karpov is one of these select feew who are fortunate enough to earn the great emperor's favor and be chosen to carry out this noble occupation. It is a great honor, to say the least, to be judged worthwhile and superior enough to defend the empire against the planets and peoples who would oppose it. At the very least, it far outweighed the benefits of those on the receiving end of the firing squad.

The red wolf watched the firing squad work quickly. He was on break and observing the deaths occur at a quick - yet to the prisoners, agonizingly slow - rate. He looked at his watch as a young boy grabbed onto his ankle. It was a boy soldier from the Fortunian military. He kicked him off with disgust and watched as he was dragged back to the line.

It was six o'clock. Almost time for his favorite talk show, Alexei decided.

* * *

"Do you know how to work these things?" the young arctic vixen asked the coyote over the roar of the vicious battle outside. It seemed that every few seconds, the building they were in shook like jello.

"No!" he yelled over the clatter. "But it couldn't be too hard!" With that, he grabbed onto the anti-aircraft gun and tried to manuever it to aim at one of the planes shooting past. Finally, after nearly forty-five seconds of getting used to the jerkiness of the equipment and seat, he fired off a round. It caught the gas tank of one of the Venomian fighters, sending it hurtling down in a trail of flame behind them.

The coyote hooted, a bit surprised by his own aim, and continued firing, every tenth shot hitting a bogey on average. Meanwhile, the young vixen next to him began firing as well, having only slightly less luck since she was smaller and could not manuever the heavy equipment as well.

"Hey!" the coyote yelled again. "I think we might be winning. Keep it up!"

Of course, he could not have worse or more ironic timing. Just then, the jello-like building gave out, and the next thing the two hot shot gunners knew, the two floors above them were caving in . . .

To be continued...

* * *

Sorry for the cliffhanger. o.- College is stressful and I have limited time to write...


End file.
